Chaos Rising
by Zephyr5
Summary: Sequel to the Sorcerer Arc. Time is subjective when you're dead, and the world can change in a blink of an eye. When two realms mirror each other, consequences for one can have unforseen consequences for the other... Spoilers for FFX and FFX2
1. The Changing Continents

Second 'Arc' in the Transcendance Arc, continuing from the Sorcerer Arc (Endgame) [WIP - ongoing series

Overall Summary: When you are dead time passes impossibly fast, and everything you knew can change, seemingly in a heartbeat. When the World has been created anew, and is struggling to balance itself in the face of the changes wrought, it can change even faster. How did we get from there to here? Well, even when nothing stays the same, nothing changes...

Disclaimer: Most of this is mine, since it has very little basis in canon aside from some of the characters and events referenced. So, we'll go with the standard disclaimer; recognise it – probably not mine, don't recognise it – probably mine (or just very obscure). If in doubt, ask, and I'll set you straight…or try to.

Warnings: May bend your brain in painful directions…but hey, that's time compression for ya. Also spoilers for FFX and FFX-2.

Chapter Summary: First the loop must close, then Squall's true legacy to the world will change its face forever. It will be up to the scattered survivors of humanity, and the new races birthed in chaos, to determine where the world's fate lies after that, for their 'God' is just a figurehead, and their true creator wants only to forget.

AN: This is the second 'arc' of the Transcendence Arc (it's really on the short side for an arc in its own right, but as it's a filler, it doesn't really fit elsewhere), bridging the gap between the end of Endgame and the start of the Ghost Arc. I'll put the images (yes, I did a set of maps for this, hence some of the delay in getting it actually written lol) on my photobucket account and stick the links in the bottom AN for anyone who wants to see what in hell I'm waffling about regarding landscape changes…assuming doesn't hijack the urls as it tends to .

**Chaos Rising - Chapter One - The Changing Continents**

Nearly a Century after the second Sorceress War against Ultemecia, and the beginning of that war, fought through and over time itself, came to pass. The child who would take the name Ultemecia - for it was not her birth name, cursed as it was by the history it bore and the future it promised - was born and set upon the road that would lead to her demise at the hands of legendary SeeDs, by then long dead.

War, never far from the hearts and minds of insecure people with power, ebbed and flowed across the land, armies moving like tides of death, leaving hundreds without families, and more without homes. The Gardens, majestic mercenary institutes that they had once been, served, as ever, as safe refuge to those who would train and join their ranks, and were quickly filled to overflowing with orphans and desperate refugees. But space was no issue, for all sides sought the additional power of the specially trained SeeDs, those who were able to take on entire armies with the aid of their Guardian Force companions.

Spiralling out of control, the Gardens devolved into nothing more than military machines, grinding ever younger children into barely-ready canon-fodder. Some SeeDs, sensing the end drawing ever closer, took it upon themselves to safely hide the knowledge and secrets held within the Gardens, before scattering to the four corners of the world, taking with them the accumulated Guardian Forces of their fallen comrades.

Aruna grew in the conflict, watched her parents die at the hands of fleeing soldiers, and then entered the military machine that Garden had become. But unlike many she drank in the training as though it were water, and thirsted for more. She longed for power, for the ability to get revenge on those she felt had wronged her, on those she blamed for losing her previously happy existence. Her desire to become stronger, stronger, ever stronger, led her from Garden when it became clear that they were slowly falling into the grave they had dug for themselves, slowly dying, losing the GFs and the knowledge and power they had once flaunted with such pride. It led her to a dying sorceress, and a rumour that the hidden continent's illusions had been shattered, its people fed to the wolves prowling that continent's hostile lands.

Esthar, Aruna reasoned, had technologies and magics that were bound to be almost forgotten by the rest of the world, that were bound to be more powerful than anything the warring countries still remembered. With the power of a sorceress filling her with confidence, she set out. But she was soon disillusioned of any idea she held that she was now 'powerful'. Surprised by a band of soldiers, she was bound and powerless before she could do or say anything, and helpless as they took their pleasure with her. After beating her insensate, they left her to die or be killed by monsters, never realising she was a sorceress, and thus would heal in safety. Aruna knew then that she needed more power, much more, for she had been overcome so easily. Yet she also knew that she would need a partner, a knight, for no matter how powerful she became, she would always be human in her need for slumber.

Aruna changed her plans then, and in the chaos of the war torn world, she hunted others of her kind, other sorceresses, stealing their powers until she felt sure that she was the most powerful sorceress ever. Only then did she return to her original plan, to strip Esthar of its knowledge and power, and use them to visit her revenge upon those who had wronged her.

And she did. The fires of her wrath burned fierce across Galbadia and Dollet, scorching the skies until the clouds turned to char and the rain to ashes. But she found her thirst for vengeance was still not sated, no matter how much land she set aflame, or how many soldiers she ripped asunder. So she returned once more to Esthar - the only land she had left untouched - to the deserted laboratory deep in the desert that spoke of such marvels as travelling through time, and magic so forbidden that the only reference she could find was a mention of 'time compression'.

But as she stumbled across the activation of the 'Ellone' device, she was not so far lost to her power-madness, her bloodlust, as to fail to realise the circle that she was completing, and thus she cast away the name 'Aruna', the name of her birth, and took upon herself the name 'Ultemecia'. She knew that her quest would, ultimately, fail, and yet she also knew that she would fight to the bitter end to try and change history, to try and succeed.

Thus began, and soon after ended, the second Sorceress War against Ultemecia, fought through and over time itself, won, inevitably, by the echoes of legendary SeeDs long dead, and never to know the ruinous end that their proud legacy had come to.

--

With the world's land scorched and battered, and time itself twisted and bruised, it seemed only fitting that the Gods and the Land make clear their protest of all that man's foolishness had wrought. Survivors of the chaotic aftermath of Ultemecia's fury found themselves scrambling to survive once more as the earth tossed and heaved, its landscapes seeming to change virtually overnight. It was not literally overnight, of course, except in geological terms, with changes that should naturally have occurred over the span of millennia taking place in mere centuries or even decades.

Five centuries past the year of Ultemecia's demise - had anyone been keeping track of time's passage - and Esthar's great plains were gone, sunk beneath the waves, just as much of Galbadia and Balamb had. A mere three centuries later, and much of Centra was also lost, with small islands appearing around the eastern side of the Galbadian continent, and three larger islands appearing to the south and west of Esthar.

A millennia past the year of Ultemecia's demise and the Time of Upheaval seemed to be drawing to a close. The smaller islands forming first land bridges, and then merging with one another to form larger continents. But those who relaxed were caught by surprise when the world spasmed, once, twice more over the next five centuries. All four continents were hard hit the first time, land dropping away beneath the feet of anyone unlucky enough to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Galbadia, which had clung to its shape for so long, was split asunder, broken into mountains in the west, and lowland in the east. Centra sank still further, only the tops of its tallest ridges forming small islands over which storms washed the seas, although some lands to the south east remained stubbornly above sea level, and some to the east merged with the land running south from Trabia and over Balamb. Esthar lost yet more land to the sea's greedy pull, the lands to its north falling as though the entire continent was on the verge of giving up and sinking beneath the waves.

The second spasm was more of a lurch, a final shudder as the land, perhaps satisfied that it had cowed the mortals upon its surface, settled into its final formation. The eastern Galbadian lowlands dipped below the sea, leaving only a small island as a token to its former existence. Western Galbadia merged with the new Trabian continent, a land-bridge springing up between them. A reef, some parts once rocky Centran islands, curved around the west side of the world, from eastern Galbadia's remnants towards the few islands that remained of Centra. Centra itself was mostly gone, or subsumed into the Estharian half of the Trabian continent by yet more land-bridges. The northern part of Esthar was lost to the sea, along with the lands around the northernmost of Trabia's two ancient volcanoes.

Much was lost during the Time of Upheaval, including the information and knowledge hidden by the SeeDs during Ultemecia's ascendance, as well as much of the history and lore of the world before that time. Scraps survived, as myth and legend, as story and fable, as much believed as scoffed at. Monsters were a universal truth, but magic was an elusive and arcane art that few could master intuitively, therefore magical beasts of incredible power and strength that answered to human masters... A pipedream, most said, fanciful wishes of those who wanted someone else to save them or were not strong enough to save themselves.

--

Very few places made it through the Time of Upheaval intact, but there were a few places that seemed blessed by the Gods and acted as safe havens. Curiously this included three 'Chocobo' forests, and the sites of two Gardens, though the structures that had once stood there had been lost even before the upheaval began. To find that not all of the once-familiar had been lost completely, that there was evidence to support the tales of the generations before and during the Time of Upheaval, gave hope to the generation upon whose shoulders the rebuilding of the race fell.

The human race, ever resilient, began the process of reclaiming its former glory. Ruins were discovered, on land and at sea, that sometimes resulted in 'relics' of the past, or more usefully, yielded up precious knowledge, allowing inventions and innovations to be brought to life once more.

As groups of survivors began to meet up on their explorations, the process of re-learning the skills and knowledge that had been lost sped up, until it seemed almost as if the Time of Upheaval had never happened, and the lands had never changed. But although it appeared so on the surface, it was clear to the scholars and those willing to read through the accounts of the past, that the Time of Upheaval had merely been a symptom of far greater changes. Changes that had seemingly stripped the world of much of the magic it had once been rich in.

Through a process of trial and error, it became clear that with training anyone could still access and use magic, but that certain individuals found the process easier or more intuitive, and those same individuals tended to produce more powerful spells. Of the 'Guardian Forces', however, they could find no trace, not even within the caves once known as the 'Fire Caverns' - the only known location of a GF to have survived relatively intact.

It was theorised that these powerful beings, surely demigods who had deigned to aid humans they considered worthy, had also taken offence at mankind's actions before the Time of Upheaval, and had turned their backs upon the world. Whether they were gone forever, or merely until humanity proved itself worthy of their attention again, it was impossible to say. Yet the theories seemed to hold a grain of truth, for many of the most powerful magic users - those who began to approach the abilities of the fabled 'sorceresses', though they were both male and female, where the legends only ever spoke of females - spoke of sensing 'powerful beings', yet feeling as if there were an impenetrable veil drawn between them.

--

Mankind, as it is wont to do, grew up into its new environment, and grew apart in its cultures. Small differences at first, based upon legends and partially recalled myths of times past. As communities grew and structured themselves, these differences became more telling, more...volatile. Opposing points of view, beginning with the scholarly disagreements of the causes of the Time of Upheaval, warped and twisted, spread and took root where fragments of old tales provided fertile grounds. But one thing all sides - for now - agreed upon, and that was that war, such as had gripped the world before the Gods made their displeasure known, could not be allowed to occur again. Thus the cultures agreed to disagree, going their separate ways that they might practise their own beliefs with others of kindred spirit, and allowing the Gods to judge whose blasphemy and foul repetition of past misdeeds warranted smiting.

The Al Bhed, who believed that only the arrogance of humans had led to their downfall, not their technology, settled themselves to the West, their recovered technology allowing them to safely colonise the rocky islands and reefs of that part of the world. They became sailors and divers, seeking the remnants of times past from where they had sunken beneath the angry waves. Over time, and through a lack of contact with the other branches of humanity, they developed their own language, and distinctive features such as the spiralled pupils in their eyes.

The 'moderates' of the humans, who remained most like to their original stock, displayed that selfsame arrogance of their forebears, laying claim to the majority of the North and South by virtue of attitude. Their willingness to accept whatever technology made their lives easier or safer, regardless of the consequences, gave the general populace an attitude of complacency that easily fooled the unwary. Whilst the 'people' might be tolerant - the embracing of new sentient species, very loosely related to humanity if related at all, a good demonstration of such open mindedness - the 'democratic' power structures leading them were soon as rotten as they had ever been in the past.

A splinter branch of the moderate humans, taking a harsher line in terms of using 'clean' technology that ran on magic, rather than belching pollutants into the world, settled the far North, where the magic lay strongest. They were also the first to discover the Ronso, a tribe of sentient cat-like creatures who, whilst warriors by nature, were fiercely dedicated to living in harmony with their environment and those around them.

The races evolved, quietly, each - for the most part - minding their own business. Trade consisted mainly of foodstuffs and medicines, although some technology also changed hands, and travellers were rare if not unusual. But still, the old habits, the old patterns of lies and deceit, the yearning for power and control gnawed at the leadership of the moderates and, to a lesser degree, but present still, within their splinter branch.

The Years of Resurgence had seen the world once more harnessed - not yet tamed - for the benefit of the races living upon it. Life was, if not idyllic, no longer the daily gauntlet that it had once been. Monsters were becoming weaker, less violent as the magic faded, and most did not rue the magic's passing, for they could no longer use it as their ancestors once had. But there were those who _could_ sense the magic, who could and _did _use it almost as easily as breathing, and its slow disappearance from the world scared them beyond sense. They panicked, certain that the loss of magic was a punishment for some infraction that they had failed to prevent - but in their pride, their certainty that _they_ could not be wrong, they sought and found a most suitable scapegoat; the polluting technology of their fellow humans.

--

AN: Right, map links as promised (replace spaces with '.'s, and put an underscore between 'zephyr' and 'goldwing').

http://i165 photobucket com/albums/u53/zephyrgoldwing/3500FFVIII jpg - the original FF8 world map, nothing fantastically new there.

(change the jpg name at the end to:)  
3000.jpg - 500 years into the Time of Upheaval, main change is the orientation of the world; it's twisted around somewhat.

2750.jpg - 750 years into the Time of Upheaval, between land rising and falling, the world is mainly islands at this point.

2500.jpg - one millennia into the Time of Upheaval, land mainly rising to form big, bulky continents; the FFX shape is starting to appear.

2250.jpg - 1250 years into the Time of Upheaval, land mainly falling beneath the sea again; volcanic activity in the far North is completely finished.

2000.jpg - the end of the Time of Upheaval (1500 years total), the FFX shape has formed itself; this version has the FF8 locations (the ones that survived) on it.

2000FFX.jpg - the original FFX world map with its locations.

And as a bonus; FallenAngelFF.jpg - fanart by me for Rinoa in Death's Angel.

I apologise to anyone I've replied to and then responded to again here…differently. I've had a few reviews sitting in my email inbox for a while and lost track of the ones I'd responded to – differences can be blamed on my complete lack of memory and my muses for being contrary and misleading .

_Review Responses_

Book One of the Sorcerer Arc: History Repeating: Chapter 13

**raneynr** : thanks for the kind words and the review, hope you liked the rest :D  
**Darkyu** : really glad you liked it, I am continuing, as you can see – and don't worry about your English, it's pretty good :D Thanks for the review :)

Book Two of the Sorcerer Arc: Death's Angel: Chapter 13

**raneynr** : evil cackle hey, at least the next one is posted so you don' thave to wait :p Thanks for the review

Book Three of the Sorcerer Arc: Battle Lines: Chapter 13

**raneynr** : blushes glad you continue to enjoy the series; sleep well and thanks for the review :D

Book Four of the Sorcerer Arc: Endgame: Chapter 13

**raneynr** : wow, high praise indeed. I'm glad you, and so many others, have enjoyed the whole arc, and particularly the way it turned out – although I have to say that the number of people _surprised_ by the ending has surprised me… Then again, as the author there tends to be slightly fewer surprises in regard to plot XD Thanks for the reviews, and I hope you enjoy the sequels as much :D  
**Shayne** : and your review made my day – if not my week :D As you can see, the crime has not been committed – the story continues! Not quite a 'book' this part, but hey, I needed to get from A to B, and whilst the format is slightly different to my normal style, it 'feels' right to me, so meh Hope you enjoy this and future chapters as much :D


	2. The Origin of Names

Second 'Arc' in the Transcendance Arc, continuing from the Sorcerer Arc (Endgame) [WIP - ongoing series

Overall Summary: When you are dead time passes impossibly fast, and everything you knew can change, seemingly in a heartbeat. When the World has been created anew, and is struggling to balance itself in the face of the changes wrought, it can change even faster. How did we get from there to here? Well, even when nothing stays the same, nothing changes...

Disclaimer: Most of this is mine, since it has very little basis in canon aside from some of the characters and events referenced. So, we'll go with the standard disclaimer; recognise it – probably not mine, don't recognise it – probably mine (or just very obscure). If in doubt, ask, and I'll set you straight…or try to.

Warnings: May bend your brain in painful directions…but hey, that's time compression for ya. Also spoilers for FFX and FFX-2.

Chapter Summary: Myths and legends are said always to contain a kernal of truth, though none might know what that truth is. If names, therefore, have power, is it wise to name children after 'legendary' or 'mythical' figures? Doing so, what might one unwittingly unleash upon them, what chains of fate might unwittingly be forged?

AN: Pringles are addictive; just say 'No'.

**Chaos Rising - Chapter Two - The Origin of Names**

_Words have great power, but only when coupled with understanding. If one man offers insult to another, but the other perceives no insult, has he still been insulted? Likewise, if a threat is not understood, is it still a threat? No, for without the joint understanding of all parties concerned, a word has no meaning, it is empty, hollow, a collection of vowels and consonants strung together in a pretty pattern. Nothing more._

Extract from (Yu) Yevon's treatise 'On Words, Power and Understanding.'

* * *

The girl was birthed first, pulled from the swollen belly of her dying mother by magic and machinery. She was early, small, unlikely to survive – or so they thought – but they named her anyway, 'Lenne', the tragic heroine of legend. When she survived the first 24 hours, and then the next, and then the next, they wept and celebrated the miracle of her survival, even as they interred her mother in the cold earth. Then they washed their hands of her, passing her into the care of the local orphanage without a second glance.

It was at the orphanage, years later, that she met the boy, 'Shuyin'. He was the son of a famous blitzball player, infamous in his own right – more for the after-match brawls than for his prowess on the field, although he was good enough that his trouble-making streak was politely 'ignored'. They hated each other on sight. He instantly singled her out for taunting, mocking her name and the legends attached to it – Lenne was always an heroic fighter, how could such a frail girl deserve the name? – and she… She did the worst thing to him that she could. She ignored him.

Shuyin, of course, knew that he was being unfair, that he was merely treading – once more – in his father's footsteps. But he knew no other way to show interest in a girl; his father's example had been abusive, involving alcohol and swearing, foul tempered tirades that often ended with his mother in tears and his father stalking drunkenly out to spend the night in the arms of an adoring 'fan'. He knew that his father's way was wrong…but he didn't know the words that were right, and so he tore himself in two, saying hateful things that he didn't truly mean.

It was song that brought them together, finally. Lenne's sorrowful words to an overcast sky, unaware that Shuyin was huddled beneath her window in defiance of curfew. Her words spoke to the bitterness in his heart, to the loss that hadn't been eased after his father's disappearance and his mother's death. As his own heart's aches eased, he listened to the words she sang, and he understood the words his father had never said aloud, but that his mother had always heard. It didn't change what he felt, but he understood a little better why, even after everything he'd put her through, his mother had died of a broken heart after his father's disappearance.

Only muscles toned and strengthened by years of blitzball enabled him to catch Lenne as she jumped and still remain standing. Of course, it helped that she was such a slight thing – as he had teased her. She had taken one look at who had caught her, sighed, and then closed her eyes, no doubt resigned to yet more teasing. She certainly hadn't been expecting the tender kiss he pressed to her lips, telling her everything he didn't know the words for, nor had she then expected for him to whisper the secrets of his own name into her ear.

From that night they were inseparable, much to the bemusement of the orphanage staff, who never knew about the song, or Lenne's attempted suicide.

--

Yevon was the youngest, the last and the brightest – in more than one respect – child of two powerful mages. He was magic imbued – or so they joked at his birth, shading their eyes from the aura that all newborns had, yet seemed so much brighter in him. So they gave him his name, 'Yevon', knowing only that it was the name of a God, oft-invoked long millennia ago, more than that lost to the Time of Upheaval. Ironic, that without knowing they would give a child with so much life in him the name of a God whose domain was death. Tragic, that they should so unwittingly shape his – and their – destinies thus.

As if echoing a warning from the future, tragedy swiftly struck at Yevon's family, claiming the lives of his two older siblings, a brother and a sister. Their loss ate at the heart of his mother, and his father, desperate to ease her grief, returned one day from the orphanage with a boy and a girl. Shuyin and Lenne, so obviously in love – and refusing to 'pretend' that they were truly blood siblings – would never be true replacements for Yevon's siblings in his mother's eyes. But in Lenne the mages saw potential, magical, yet elusive, and that was enough to draw Yevon's mother from her inconsolable despair.

Under tutelage from some of the most respected mages in Zanarkand, Lenne quickly grew in confidence to become a songstress – one of the most powerful type of mage, if only because their every word was imbued with power – and an overnight hit with the public. Shuyin, having learned that he did not have to follow his father's footsteps simply because they were there, returned to blitzball, forging a name for himself in his own right. Shuyin and Lenne were the darlings of the Zanarkand socialites, their success and clearly happy relationship undaunted by the media spotlights.

Yevon, far from envying his two adopted siblings, wished them all the best in their endeavours. He was intelligent enough, even in his teens, to realise that his own path to fame lay a different way – the scholar's way. His name and work might never be a household topic of conversation, but in the circles of power and knowledge, Yevon was of far more interest than his glamorous siblings.

Their parents, of course, were thrilled that their children – even if two were not, biologically, theirs – were doing so well for themselves. And if Yevon's mother doted on Lenne, and his father doted on Yevon, Shuyin and Lenne doted on each other to the exclusion of all else, so that no one felt left out.

The family dynamics were idyllic, almost surreal…but the atmosphere of the world in which they lived was anything but. Rumours of discontent were whispered everywhere, always told third or fourth-hand, but told by so many that there had to be some kernel of truth within them. Zanarkand was being stripped of its magic because they were failing to prevent the other cities of man from using the 'harsh' machina – they said. Zanarkand had to act now, to make the rest of mankind understand their folly, however that understanding might be achieved, before the magic was lost completely – they said. Zanarkand, they said, should take up arms and _force_ the abandonment of the 'harsh' machina…

War was in the air.

--

The threat of war split the household, shattered its idyllic daydream of life. Lenne was firmly against violence, though she hated the 'harsh' machina and their pollution, and every song she sang was laced with that conflicting mix of hate and pacifism, unwittingly stoking the seeds of aggression even as she suppressed the urge to launch a pre-emptive attack. Shuyin cared nothing for politics, save that it might disrupt the blitzball season, or attempt to tear Lenne away from him; if war came, he would cope with the situation then, but if it did not and the magic was lost, well, he had loved Lenne before either of them knew she was a mage.

Their mother was a different matter. She loathed the 'harsh' machina, and her loathing easily transferred to the users of that machina. As a mage she couldn't conceive of a world without magic, and if the 'harsh' machina threatened magic, there was nothing she was unwilling to do to destroy it. Their father was the complete opposite, urging diplomacy and complete pacifism in the circle of mages, attempting at every step to remind the panicked mages of the one thing that all humanity had once agreed on – war had led to the Time of Upheaval, and it could not be allowed to occur again, lest the consequences tore the world asunder.

And Yevon… Yevon held his opinions close to his chest, quietly continuing to research and write and publish. Quietly continuing to train his magical powers and hone his intelligence, each new accolade permitting him deeper into the hallowed archives of Zanarkand, where his new discoveries and subsequent articles pandered to the popular academic theories and drove his influence ever deeper throughout the circles of academia – the backdoor into the circle of mages.

--

AN: mwahahahaha…thunder rolls …okay…that was scary timing on the part of the weather…


	3. The Mad Gods Descent

Second 'Arc' in the Transcendance Arc, continuing from the Sorcerer Arc (Endgame) [WIP - ongoing series

Overall Summary: When you are dead time passes impossibly fast, and everything you knew can change, seemingly in a heartbeat. When the World has been created anew, and is struggling to balance itself in the face of the changes wrought, it can change even faster. How did we get from there to here? Well, even when nothing stays the same, nothing changes...

Disclaimer: Most of this is mine, since it has very little basis in canon aside from some of the characters and events referenced. So, we'll go with the standard disclaimer; recognise it – probably not mine, don't recognise it – probably mine (or just very obscure). If in doubt, ask, and I'll set you straight…or try to.

Warnings: May bend your brain in painful directions…but hey, that's time compression for ya. Also spoilers for FFX and FFX-2.

Chapter Summary: Bevelle and Zanarkand are at war. Lenne and Shuyin have taken their first steps towards their tragic destiny and Yevon is quickly gaining power and influence in the circle of mages. But Yevon is soon going to discover that he bears the most dangerous name of them all, the most powerful name. But is the power of an insane God more dangerous to foe, or to friend?

AN: Anyone see where this is going yet?

**Chaos Rising - Chapter Three - The Mad God's Descent**

_Words have power, given unto them by Understanding, but certain words have power given unto them by Faith. Faith, being an essential component of Magic, lends these words power beyond mortal comprehension, a power that Mages harness in their works. How else might fire be summoned into existence from nothing? These words are most dangerous in their existence, for they require no Understanding, merely to be shaped and formed, applied, in or out of context. Perhaps it should serve as a warning, then, that so many of these words are Names; a warning that we are not the masters of fate and destiny that we would like to believe._

Extract from Yu Yevon's treatise 'On Faith and Magic', from the 'Secret Codex'

Their family had split with the declaration of war between Bevelle and Zanarkand. Yevon's mother had been one of the first mages to volunteer to fight, and a riot, only days after she had left, had claimed the life of their father, trying in vain to halt the mob. Lenne's sorrow had halted the riot only minutes later, her voice whispering through the city, shrouding it in sadness. She was censured, unofficially, and told that she could either support the circle of Mages in the war, or be silenced – permanently if necessary.

Lenne's hatred of the 'harsh' machina, and her loyalty to the woman who had taken her and Shuyin from the orphanage, led her to bow to their will. She sang Zanarkand into an almost religious fervour against the 'harsh' machina and their users. Only a few were spared the insidious touch of her battle hymns, amongst them Shuyin and Yevon.

Yevon, in a quiet ceremony amongst the crème-de-la-crème of intellectual society, became '_Yu_ Yevon', gaining long-awaited access to the oldest and most secret of Zanarkand's archives. There he found, amongst the oldest fragments of tales that spoke of the 'White Knight Seifer Almasy', and the 'Black Knight Squall Leonhart', spoke of their battles – legends even before the Time of Upheaval – tales of lovers doomed never to find lasting happiness in life; and the origin of the names 'Shuyin' and 'Lenne'.

Knowing the power of names, as he did, knowing that the power of names was contained within the name itself, not requiring that anyone else knew it, Yevon also knew that his adopted siblings were destined for an unhappy end – one that his knowledge could not save them from. Then he found, buried even deeper within the morass of fragmented knowledge, the origin of his own name, and he wept, for he knew then that whatever action or inaction he might see fit to take in the future, it could only lead to death and destruction.

--

Yevon buried the knowledge of his own name in the furthest recesses of his memory, though he could never escape it entirely. He married a young mage, daughter of one of the most influential Mages in the circle; a political move, though he grew to truly love her, especially with the birth of their daughter, Yunalesca. He was most careful to choose a name with no special meaning, hoping to avoid the error of his own parents, and those who had named his adopted siblings. He failed to realise, then, that no name began with power, that they accumulated them through the tales and legends that grew around them.

The war escalated, casualties high on both sides, each growing increasingly desperate to strike a decisive blow. A fierce battle, in which Yevon's mother, mortally wounded, used her death to devastate a massive swathe of land, seemed to be the victory that Zanarkand had been awaiting. The Calm Lands – as they would later be known – became the no-man's-land between the two armies, scorched and bloodied, magic so badly mangled that spells were unpredictable in the extreme, and machina more often exploded or failed than worked as they should. Zanarkand's envoys to Bevelle pointed out that a single Mage had wrought the Calm Lands, and that they had plenty more who were willing to do the same elsewhere.

It was a calculated bluff – Zanarkand had no idea how Yevon's mother had done what she had, and whilst they had plenty of other Mages who would, driven by Lenne's hymns, willingly die for the war, they had none of the strength of Yevon's mother. Bevelle might have known it, or perhaps didn't care, for their counter was _not_ a bluff – not entirely. They led the envoys before a massive machina, thick with ancient hatred and bloodlust, and told them that, if Zanarkand failed to surrender, they would unleash 'Vegnagun' upon them. Theirs was a partial bluff; Bevelle wasn't sure how to activate the giant machine, wasn't sure, with the magic so thick about it, that they could control it if they did.

Neither side would back down, but Zanarkand had a final 'secret' weapon that, so far, they had kept from the front lines of the fighting. Lenne, the songstress whose battle hymns had driven the populace of Zanarkand to fight in a war many of them didn't support, and whose dirges, they hoped, could drive the enemy into death where they stood.

--

When Lenne was ordered to the front lines, Yevon wept as he had the day he discovered the origin of his name, and prayed for forgiveness. Though he knew ruin would follow him whether he acted or not, it was not in his nature to sit idly by when the knowledge and power he could wield would permit him to act. As Lenne travelled to the edge of the Calm Lands, Yevon called the circle of Mages together and calmly outlined his 'backup' plan to save Zanarkand.

--

Lenne staged her own rebellion, singing carelessness and lethargy into her 'escort' so that she might escape, and fleeing far behind enemy lines, towards the ancient malice that her heart told her was the source of the Bevelle madness. If she could sing that malice to quiescence, perhaps she might be able to sing an end to the war that she had never wanted to start. She hoped Shuyin would forgive her for living up to her name, hoped that she could end it before he followed her…before he lived up to his own name, never realising that she was too late, that he travelled but days behind her, to share in her fate and play out his own.

When Bevelle held Shuyin as evidence of a subversive strike by Zanarkand – Lenne having been killed lest she attempt to create a second 'Calm Land' in Bevelle itself – Yevon was granted permission to carry out his grand summoning.

--

They didn't know, entirely, what they were there for. The circle had called for volunteers, Mages whose level of power or control meant they hadn't yet been sent to the front lines, those who believed passionately in Zanarkand, those who were willing to give their lives to preserve it. Of course, Yevon knew, the circle didn't know, exactly, why they had provided these voluntary sacrifices to him. The circle _couldn't_ know, for the simple reason that _he_ didn't know.

It had been gradual, the slips he'd begun to notice. Lapses in time, where he would be doing one thing, and then suddenly find himself doing another thing, the intervening time a complete blank. As far as he could place their start, it had been since he'd realised the origin of his name, as if his _understanding_ of its power had attracted the attention of his namesake…

Was he becoming the living avatar of a God of Death? If he _was_, was that a good thing or a bad thing? This idea, this grand summoning – based on the experimental procedures in development for attempting to call forth the mythical 'Guardian Forces' once more – had bled into his awareness from some outside – or was it inside now? – source. There was no hesitation in it, no uncertainty, and it had unerringly pointed him in the direction of the fragments of information that supported the process and the outcome. Still, Yevon had a sinking suspicion that there were certain aspects that his 'possessor' knew the circle – and Yevon himself – might baulk at, certain risks inherent that might outweigh the potential benefit.

He began to wonder, in the privacy of his own skull – but was it really private these days? – whether the madness he felt lurking at the back of his mind was really his. How did one know if one was being consumed by some all-powerful deity; was it truly a gradual process, or had he been consumed already, with this slow process of realisation occurring as he came to terms with the fact? His every thought was suspect, his every action worthy of scrutiny lest he find that he was not who – or what – he had thought…but when the threat might come from within, how could he say what action was 'his', and what was not? He had borne the name 'Yevon' from his birth, had carried its burden even before he had known the burden existed. Had he _always_ been the living avatar of the dead God? Then why the blackouts? Why the creeping sensation of madness and impending doom?

A cleared throat – hesitant – brought Yevon's wandering thoughts back to the preparations for the summoning ritual. He had chosen, or rather, the spot had been chosen _through_ him, with great care. It was situated high on the cliffs overlooking Zanarkand, not at the peak, where the Mage's temple was situated, but on the final ascent to those hallowed halls. His voice had said that it was the most suitable place because of its view, and that its proximity to the pool of magic within the temple was an added bonus; he suspected, again, that there was another, ulterior motive for performing the ritual on the mountainside.

The ritual markings were complete, complex designs burned into the ground and mountainside, artfully designed by otherworldly – his? – hands and eyes so that each 'volunteer' might find their place, and by occupying it further complete the design. It would be a mosaic of wondrous substance, he thought, waving the volunteers to begin taking their places. A mix of man and magic, power and purpose focussed and directed to him, in order that he might, he realised, not _summon_ a means of saving Zanarkand, but create a pocket universe in which Zanarkand would live forever; a living dream, drawn from the faith of the volunteers and channelled through him…

Yevon could have wept then, but an alien sense of disassociation was creeping over him – not quite the black oblivion that would have been welcome, but a firm sense that he was no longer in control, and could only watch as his namesake, Yevon, God of the Dead, acted _through_ him.

Each volunteer stepped into their place without a murmur, concealed runes and bindings snapping closed on them as they completed their individual circuits, holding them still and silent, focussing them on their task to the exclusion of everything else. The magic swelled and grew, leeching away the nearby temple's pooled magic and adding it to the growing mass of power, literally at Yevon's fingertips. Such was the concentration of magic that it manifested visibly, creeping out of the rocky mountainside to bring the ritual designs to life, forming a shimmering, mesmerising mosaic, just as had existed in his imagination when he had realised the true purpose of the runes he had dictated carved. Their living tomb would, at least, be a magnificent sight in its grotesqueness.

--

Yevon, no longer the Mage but the God, driven insane as a result of his own paranoid actions, called like a wasp to honey by the most powerful summoning ritual of all – the sharing of names – reached out and clasped the tendrils of waiting power, weaving it into and through his own power.

He took their memories, their mental images of Zanarkand, forging them into a cohesive whole that he then pressed into a reality. It wasn't truly reality – to alter that in such a way had passed beyond his ability – but it would exist in a 'bubble' world, sustained by power and memory, and trapped between the world of the living…and the grey lands. But for the most infinitesimal fraction of a second – and at the same time, for an unending eternity – the new reality would not be a bubble…but a conduit, and therein lay the risk that the God had carefully concealed from his mortal namesake.

It made no sense for the God of the Dead to have abandoned his station, to have possessed a mortal – even one bearing his name – and to now be working to achieve a twisted version of that mortal's vision. But Yevon was no longer sane, had been warped and twisted by emotions that he had no means of understanding, had been drawn inexorably into a prison of mortal flesh by the undeniable power of his name. Just as Yevon the mortal was no longer who he had been at his birth, Yevon the God was no longer the creature _he_ had once been.

Lost inside his own mind, the God clung to the 'sanity' of the mortal's thoughts and dreams, his knowledge and desires. The mortal wished to save his city, his people, _somehow _– but there was also that burning ember that wished for revenge against the people who had stolen his family away. The God could make that wish come true, not realising that, to mortals, there was a vast difference between illusion and reality, between 'want' and 'need', or that certain prices were far to great to pay for _anything_.

The vortex of power formed, twisting and twining around Yevon as he danced, staff twirling and moving in impossibly complex gestures that didn't remain within the mortal realm. Like some cosmic drill applied to the walls between realities, the power bored through the veil of death, spearing into the grey lands with a flare of power visible – and tangible – for unimaginable distance there. In a heartbeat – and a millennia – creatures of the grey lands swarmed towards the unexpected, undefended, breach between the worlds of life and death. The Guardians of the Dead also responded, but they had no warning, no vital head start…

Yevon was unprepared for the influx of creatures, loath to be distracted from the more important task of sealing the breach by the also-important task of halting the creatures swarming through and into the world of the living. He could hear the fragments of the mortal Yevon's mind gibbering in terror at the horrors unleashed, at the shared knowledge of what each was and what they could – and likely would – do.

Snarling with effort, Yevon split his consciousness and the power he was wielding, glad that sealing the breach would take less power than creating it in the first place. Whilst one half of his attention continued to create the bubble reality – easier now the Guardians of the Dead had arrived to thin the ranks of the creatures streaming through – the other half lashed out with the 'spare' power, tagging and leashing the creatures who had unwisely lingered near the blinding pool of magic on the mountainside. He pulled them to him and around him, the magic warping them to his purpose, welding them into one creature, forging them into a living armour around himself. The world he was creating could only exist as long as he channelled the power of the sacrificial volunteers – as long as he lived, so too would Zanarkand; just as the mortal Yevon had desired.

--

AN: definitely a case of 'be careful what you wish for' ne? Comments? Criticisms? Random praise? I've tried not to give too much away with Lenne and Shuyin's story, since I'm only going to revisit it later if I do.

I'm assuming that everyone can fill in the 'blanks' at the end here; i.e. that people have played the game and know what Yevon's armour is etc. If you haven't played the game and I've just left you wondering 'wtf?? What happens next?', a) why haven't you played the game dammit? And b) you'll have to wait for the explanations in the next arc :p

Someone pleeeease leave a review; by my own rules I won't leave something up that doesn't have at least one review :(


	4. The Cracked Mirror

Second 'Arc' in the Transcendance Arc, continuing from the Sorcerer Arc (Endgame) WIP - ongoing series

Overall Summary: When you are dead time passes impossibly fast, and everything you knew can change, seemingly in a heartbeat. When the World has been created anew, and is struggling to balance itself in the face of the changes wrought, it can change even faster. How did we get from there to here? Well, even when nothing stays the same, nothing changes...

Disclaimer: Most of this is mine, since it has very little basis in canon aside from some of the characters and events referenced. So, we'll go with the standard disclaimer; recognise it – probably not mine, don't recognise it – probably mine (or just very obscure). If in doubt, ask, and I'll set you straight…or try to.

Warnings: May bend your brain in painful directions…but hey, that's time compression for ya. Also spoilers for FFX and FFX-2.

Chapter Summary: The world of the dead mirrors the world of the living; just as chaos has erupted there, so too has chaos attempted to wreak havoc on the plains of the dead. But the old souls have rallied the Guardians of the Dead, and one soul has made it their task to force Squall to face the consequences of his and Yevon's actions. But will the cure be more deadly than the disease?

AN: Last one in the 'filler' section

**Chaos Rising - Chapter Four - The Cracked Mirror**

_Duty is heavier than a mountain, Death is lighter than a feather._

Shienarian saying, from Robert Jordan's 'Wheel of Time'

For all the process of dying embodied the very concept of embracing change, the dead did not take well to the disruption of their familiar routines. Yevon was their God and leader, the Guardians of the Dead were their – scary – protectors, and they followed the endless cycle of death and rebirth at their whim.

This inflexibility was, bizarrely perhaps, most demonstrated by the younger souls, new to the vast endlessness of the cycle that gripped them, and, in turn, clinging to anything that represented stability – even if it was a perpetually shifting stability. They forged stability by travelling the same paths through death with each sojourn in the lands of the dead. It was they who were most affected when Yevon, having become increasingly erratic, vanished completely. And it was the oldest souls – those whose breadth of experience made them most flexible – who consequently took charge, reassuring the younger souls and ensuring that the cycle continued.

It was one of those old souls, once known in life as Edea Kramer, who had foreseen the terrible eventuality of Yevon's self-destruction. It was 'she' who had shared her fears with the other old souls, and who had laid the foundations for action if – when – the God of Death, his sanity decaying before them, fell beyond the point of no return. They had not, at first, cared where he had gone, what he was doing…

--

The Guardians of the Dead, suddenly leaderless and without instruction, had straggled back to the borders of the grey lands, milling aimlessly, their presence casting a shroud of despair over the lands of the dead. Many failed to return at all, so bereft of any semblance of autonomy that Yevon's disappearance as good as killed them – a state the creatures of the grey lands quickly made real in any other meaningful sense.

Finally the Guardian that Edea had been awaiting returned, his expression haunted, yet his aura somehow at peace. It was immediately clear that, whatever process the other Guardians had gone through to become the shells that they were, in this case, something completely different had happened…

--

Squall Leonhart, former sorcerer and now Yevon-knew-what – or maybe nobody knew – had known before he had become a Guardian of the Dead how the process was _supposed_ to work. He would surrender his will, allow Yevon to bind them so that he became an extension of the God's will. In return, just as Guardian Forces erased the memories of mortals, his memories of his past lives and, more importantly, his memories of his _last_ life, would be erased. He knew that, having already sacrificed some of his emotions in the final battle against Kylari, losing his memories – the memories of the sacrificed emotions – would have left him even more of a hollow shell than the other Guardians…but he had been unable to find another solution.

Maybe, as Seifer had accused him, never realising that Squall's stoic front was just that, he _had _been running away again. But what reason had he had to stay? Even if Seifer had failed to realise it at the time, Squall had not – he knew _exactly_ what he'd sacrificed, then and for all eternity, whether or not he became a Guardian. Perhaps his meddling in history, giving Seifer the role he had desired, the role he had _deserved_, had backfired on the blond's death and discovery of it…but it had been his attempt to apologise for everything else that he had given his soul mate – his _former_ soul mate – no choice in. Squall knew he had never been one to say what he was thinking or feeling, but, as ever, the gulf of understanding between himself and Seifer, so incredibly wide for all that they had ever been destined partners, had led to his gesture being utterly misunderstood.

Still, his point was that he had known what _should_ have happened, and he had assumed – perhaps unwisely on his part – that Yevon's failure to renegotiate their bargain in light of his somewhat, uncertain status, meant that the God was certain it would have no untoward effects. That, rather clearly now, had been a somewhat rash oversight on Yevon's part.

Squall had known he was insane when he died, that the insanity ran so deeply, had been impressed upon him at such a fundamental level, that he might never be sane again. Then again, the emotions that he'd lost and his own natural stoicism meant that only those who knew him well might see the madness lurking deep in his eyes. He'd suspected at first, when that insanity had begun to fade, like rust being cleaned from the surface of a blade, that its taint ran so deep that it had first to be lost so that his memories might then also slowly leech away. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder _where_ the memories, the insanity, was draining away _to_.

Time had passed, and Squall, having had little else to do besides allow his body to move as it was commanded, had slowly adapted to the knowledge he'd been granted on his death. True, as a Guardian of the Dead his omniscience had been removed, but the subconscious could absorb an incredible amount of information, and his mental discipline – second to none – enabled him to access that information at his whim. The knowledge, as it was intended to do, had allowed him to come to terms with his actions and their consequences – had allowed him to find, for once in his life, peace.

But that peace had been short lived. It had soon dawned on him that Yevon's instructions were becoming increasingly erratic, and that the link between him and the God – and presumably between the God and each of the other Guardians – was degrading…fraying. The proverbial coin dropped then; the answer to the vague wonder of where, exactly, the Guardian's lost memories went, where his madness had gone… The folly of blindly trusting Yevon's judgement, when it had already been demonstrated that the God could not see _all_ outcomes of his actions – Squall's power being one such example – became suddenly apparent. But there was nothing, for the moment at least, that could be done, save to await the consequences of Yevon's paranoia and ponder the fact that a 'god' was merely someone vastly more powerful than yourself.

--

He had been the deepest within the grey lands, furthest from the lands of the dead – no coincidence he'd thought – when the connection between Yevon and him, and presumably every other Guardian, had parted with a wet snap.

The sudden lack of a controlling presence in his being was disorientating in the extreme, leaving him weak and uncoordinated despite being in the best 'physical' condition of his existence. Had he been a Guardian – no matter how inappropriate that term might be when applied to him – for much longer, Squall didn't think he would have survived. That so many – relatively speaking – Guardians much older than he had made it back to the lands of the dead when he finally returned, considering how hard the separation and loss must have hit them, spoke volumes of how far into the endless grey lands he had been.

It was little surprise to find the soul he remembered as 'Edea', along with many of the other 'old' souls, had taken over the process of easing the newly-dead souls into acceptance, and smoothing the outward journeys of those who had chosen to be reborn once more. Nor was it a surprise to find that she had specifically been awaiting _his_ return. If he and Seifer had been bound as soul-mates, Squall thought, he and Edea seemed bound in another way; it seemed that she was always there to tell him he must shoulder the burden of saving the world – or at least setting things to rights. But…he couldn't argue with her, not when she had the full – or near full – omniscience of the dead, and he was limited to a Guardian's sense of 'need'. Well, with Yevon gone none of them really had _that_ anymore either.

A new war was going to begin, as much against his own madness – for it was that which drove Yevon now – as against the fallen God, but Squall had seen one such war, between far lesser powers, consume the world already; he had no desire to see or cause another. This war would be smaller, he was determined, or at least, he would not permit himself to reach a position where he had no choice but to 'play god' – and would he really be 'playing', now? – with the lives of nations. He had been there once before, and he had hated himself for it, even as he now accepted the necessity of his actions at the time.

Some of the other Guardians, those who seemed to be 'recovering' the best, he would send out before he left, of those who remained, a few would follow after, and the rest would remain to safeguard the border of the lands of the dead. They would ascend, following in the wake of the mad God, yet there of their own volition, not tethered by their names to a vessel that might prove less than suitable. He knew 'Edea' planned to be reborn soon, that her soul-mate would follow in her wake, and many of the other souls who had been close to him in his previous life had either gone, or were planning to go. History repeating once more, the same souls in a different scenario – fundamentally different, yet somehow just the same.

He turned a deaf ear to her warnings that Seifer had not adjusted, that he festered and plotted and sank into the madness unique to the dead. It was not that he didn't care, but that he had severed the ties between them, so thoroughly that he had excised any lingering emotion towards his former soul-mate. The wound of that emotional surgery, however, was still blisteringly raw, and he threw himself into the solution of the greater problem, rather than risk the most painful healing of a confrontation, which his subconscious insisted – and all the evidence agreed – would only engender further disaster between them.

--

Seifer…his thoughts were a mad maelstrom of negative emotions and rage, feeding upon themselves to fuel his twisted desire to somehow 'better' Squall. He'd had a lifetime to recover from the mental damage both Squall and Ultemecia had caused…but discovering that lifetime had been a 'lie' had undone the healing that had taken place. Now his emotions and his denial of the 'truth', the omniscience of the dead, threatened to tear the last shreds of 'humanity' away and turn him into something as far removed from 'human' as Squall had become. In the smallest corner of his mind, barely sheltered from the raging mental storm, a part of him whimpered…unheard.

Seifer had never been stupid, merely impulsive, trusting to gut instincts far more than was deemed acceptable for a student. He'd never realised that to earn the right to play by his own rules – as he saw other SeeDs doing – he had to first demonstrate that he could play 'by the book'. But there were no books now, no exams or examiners to tell him – with varying emotion, but always politely – that his unorthodox schemes had 'failed'. So he watched, and waited, animal cunning and instinct leading his sharp eyes to catch every important gesture, his ears to catch each significant word. His own mental chaos was a background hum, something he was inured to now, but that shielded his thoughts and plans from _everyone_ else, and that meant, all the cards were now in _his_ hands…

--

Most of the most capable Guardians were gone when it happened, when the surge of power deep in the grey lands registered across the senses of the remaining Guardians. There was no way to call them back, not knowing where or who or even _when_ – time being 'flexible' between the land of the dead and of the living, so that one might be reborn technically _before_ one had chosen to be reborn, although never before one's last death – each had gone and become. That would be one of his first tasks, when Squall himself followed in their footsteps, to locate as many as he could. For now, however, he had an 'army' of Guardians barely capable of independent thought, and a crisis in the grey lands.

There was only one option, though it sickened him to do it. He let instinct take over, reforming the bonds between Guardian and God…but to himself, though he didn't consider himself a 'God'. It worked well enough; the near-automatons were capable of following basic instructions when given them in the manner they were accustomed to – via the link. He refused the feedback – the memories – that tried to flow into his mind; with no old memories remaining, the images were nearly a real-time reflection of the datum detected by the senses of each Guardian, and, unused to handling such information overload, Squall found it far simpler to refuse to let it impinge upon his own thoughts and memories.

When they reached the breach it was unclear what Yevon was doing, only that the Mad God had somehow split his attention, beginning to seal the breach whilst simultaneously attempting to minimise the number of creatures breaking through into the land of the living. Squall's 'army' slammed into the back of the crowd, working together to swiftly eliminate the stronger creatures, removing the weaker ones with single, precise blows. As they thinned the swarm Yevon's task became easier, less power required for defence meaning he could knit the breach's seams together faster.

Squall was the first to reach the point of the breach, the only one to get a glimpse through it to where a man he didn't recognise – bearing an aura of power he recognised all too well – danced tirelessly on a mountainside, weaving power with his movements; power that came from the grotesque mosaic of ritual sacrifice behind him. Then the breach snapped closed, leaving the Guardians to mop up the remaining creatures and return to the edge of the grey lands.

He couldn't, Squall realised, strip the land of the dead of its defenders, which meant he couldn't take all those who were rational enough to function alone. There was no way to know what Yevon had been doing, why he had caused the breach – if it had been deliberate and not accidental – or whether he might cause another in the future. But he couldn't remain in the lands of the dead himself, for he was needed where the war would truly take place, and that was within the lands of the living.

The dilemma was not easily solved, not until he spoke with Edea and the other old souls. They suggested leaving a handful of the most capable Guardians – of those who had not already departed to the lands of the living – and forging a network of links between them and 'squads' of the Guardians unable to function adequately without guidance.

It took time, experimentation and understanding working with instinct to find the way to achieve what he wanted, for he hadn't wanted a link through which memory would flow and distract the 'squad leaders'. But eventually it was done, the lands of the dead protected once more, leaving Squall free to make his way to the lands of the living, there to pursue his own mission.

--

AN: Er, yes… Not entirely happy with the end to this, feels a bit abrupt, as though I've forgotten something, but nevermind. (LOL! I forgot the incident of Yevon breaking into the grey lands to make the bubble reality XD; ending feels better now) One thing to remember, time between the land of the dead and the land of the living isn't constant…sometimes it's not linear either XD So anyone who was grinning and preparing to point out inconsistencies between time of people leaving the land of the dead and reincarnating into the land of the living, nyah :p

Edea and the other 'old souls' can take over Yevon's duties because it's a built-in cycle, not an active use of the God's powers. They can't create more Guardians or directly control the existing ones, hence why they have to wait for Squall to return before they can dump everything on his shoulders lol. Squall, on the other hand, isn't exactly a God, but is close enough to 'copycat' Yevon's method of binding Guardians. He could probably create new Guardians, but wouldn't unless they were volunteers – which are few and far between lol.

It will be a while before the next 'book' because I want to try and get Corvine going again, and I also want to play FFX again to refresh my memory of it.

Review Response:

**Dancata** – yay! So glad you reviewed and saved the series ;P Glad you liked it, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter just as much. I'm not sure when I'll start writing and posting the next section of the series since I have a couple of other things going off in real life(tm) and a few other pieces of writing I'm working on. If in doubt, check my profile, since I do try and keep people notified of what's going on. Thanks again for the review :)


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